Blessings
by PineappleOverlord
Summary: Even though angels don't legally exist, there's no denying that the residents of Night Vale are blessed. And Carlos, perfect as he is, has the most blessings of them all. / Slight UA (Universe Alteration.) Carlos x Cecil
1. Chapter 1

Angels are the harbingers of blessings.

Or, at least, that's how they're described in books that are neither read nor remembered. Perhaps the blessings they bring in Night Vale are more mundane; the gifts of working light fixtures and humdrum slices of gossip.

Old woman Josie declares that her she is under the protection of these angels who don't even officially exist, so I ask her if I can maybe take one and enjoy a day of good (and possibly illegal) fortune.

"No. I'd rather keep them for myself," then she pauses and smiles, "But now that you mention it, Erika is sort of going through that hormonal phase and is a bit of a pain to keep around. If you pay me, then I might think about it."

Politely, I tell her she is too old to be extorting money off her neighbours, but then she gets angry. Not actually angry, mind you, but that polite-and-surprisingly-rather-sassy-old-lady brand of angry. She asks me why the hell I'm here anyway.

"It was the voices."

"That's as good enough a reason as any," she turns back to her kettle, "Do you like chamomile?"

"Thanks, but no. It's far too yellow for my tastes."

"Suit yourself."

I look up at the clock that isn't real, "Besides, I'd better be going. It's time for my dinner."

She warns me not to eat any mushrooms as they've all grown ears and tails, and no one has tested the implications yet. She adds that she rather likes listening to my voice on her battered old radio, before ordering me to just piss off already.

I leave her illuminated house, shielding my sensitive eyes from the brightness- if it weren't powered through the heavens, that amount of wattage would cost her nigh on a million each month- and make my way into the centre of town.

Mandate calls for each citizen to eat Big Rico's pizza at least once a week, but I always find an excuse to visit more often. It isn't the rich tomato sauce with just the right amount of garlic and herbs that tempts me; it's the fact that the pizzeria is less than ten doors away from Night Vale's most beautiful resident.

I'm lucky today; he's in his front lawn and… oh god, he's shirtless. I say a quick prayer of thanks for the desert heat and the hands of a friendly Erika. He is clipping the branches of a barren tree, and even the way his fingers hold the shears- deftly, thumb guiding the dual blades along- is a work of art.

Words are not enough for Carlos, for he is a scientist who believes in certainty, and the feather light touch of letters and emotions are not certain. They are malleable and inconstant, and none are as beautiful and perfect as he appears now.

The eggshell sky rests its head on his shoulders, and the gentle arch of his dark back, and the perfect lines of his delicate legs welcome the weight, tell the sky to settle down, to cry it out. His hair is ebulliently askew, the colour of chocolate, with a composed curl of grey at his temple. His features are feline, aquiline, erinaceous, somehow the features of a magnificent beast. Carlos is stunning, even in profile, when I do not have to feel the full weight of his gaze.

He is undisclosed and unaware.

There is no way to explain the feelings that stir within me. It is as if a desert mist has descended, and the beads of moisture have collected within the sand, crystallised and become pearls beneath our broken bodies, and we are wary; for a single step and this fragile dream disappears and becomes sand once more. But then we carry on, no longer asleep, but still, somehow, always broken.

Now is the time to walk away, before he notices I've been staring at him for the last minute.

But then he turns, and that strong jaw tilts up to smile, and his eyes catch mine. His eyes are brighter than a million summers yet sadder than an infinite autumn, suspended in the absence of seasons or time. They are brown. One colour should not hold so much meaning as they do.

And he mustn't speak. If he speaks, the glass between us breaks and my resolve crumbles and I fall in love with him all over again. And yet, he must speak. His voice is the encapsulation of everything that could ever be loved.

Step away now, I tell myself. And I try to obey my thoughts and move my leg but it just sort of spasms beneath me.

"Hey, Cecil."

And oh god. Carlos's voice. His rich baritone is heady and captivating, and every letter is purred, perfected by the careful formation of his lips and a deft flick of the tongue- things that shouldn't be noticed but are glaringly clear on such a stunning being. There is an oaky tone to his voice, firmly rooted in the depths of wonder, yet it is also as sweet and saccharine as sugar and it melts into my consciousness and I find myself unable to do anything but smile.

He asks me what I'm doing here.

I gesture off into the distance, "Oh, just getting myself some pizza."

"You mean a bowl of stewed tomatoes."

I shrug.

"Did you want to talk about something?"

I frown, "What?"

"You were just lingering outside the gate, so I thought maybe you had something to say, that's all."

I wanted to tell him how perfect he was, how everything about him was art in motion, how he was the best thing that had happened to this town since it was colonised back in the 18th century. I wanted to tell him that looking at him was like gazing upon the dark planet above, an immense, impassable entity which I had no access to; I can only gaze upon his awesome presence and reach out with blighted fingers, never to touch or to hold. I want to tell him that I do not have the keys to unlock his conversation.

But it all seems too heavy and so I say, "I wanted to ask if you've found any other scientific anomalies here?"

"Well," Carlos begins, and his eyes light up with the juxtaposing magic of science, "Right now, we're looking at magnets."

"And?"

"They seem to point to the nearest cactus."

"Is this…" I gesture to something that even I don't understand.

"Frankly, it's not at all important. But it's interesting, don't you think?"

I agree with him, though nothing can be as interesting, as mind tearing, as his face. I try to make my heart beat liquid courage, "Say, can we talk about it over a pizza or something?"

He looks at me and I forget the conventions of breathing, "I mean, some tomato sauce. Maybe a wad of cheese. If you'd prefer it?"

"Oh. I have things to do. Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Of course. See you then."

And then Carlos, lovely Carlos, gives me a twinkle of his eyes and a twitch of his perfect lips, and heads inside. I watch the door for a moment and I think.

Both of us are blessed.

Carlos is blessed with the incontinence of beauty, a radiance that could rival a god, could rival a sun in a system yet unknown, a sun that blazes, free of restraint or jarring watchfulness, a sun that has no use for a life that is false and unfounded.

I am blessed with his company.

Together, we are him. And we are the way his eyes shine and his fingers sing.

* * *

**A/N: Ah. Yes. This is good. This is how I prefer to write: all weird and drabbly and jumping all over the place. Something about the way Cecil speaks welcomes this kind of style, and it makes it so much easier to write.**

**This ought to be approximately three parts long. Do not expect me to stick to one fic. It often takes me weeks, if not months, to publish another part, what with the crazed flurry of ideas in my head.**


	2. Chapter 2

Routine is a blessing in Night Vale, as without it, our frail minds would no doubt shatter and everything would become nothing in the maelstrom of insanity. But too much order and expectation, and we become caged beasts and we begin to wonder how it would feel to rip someone apart and slather the walls with their viscera.

Only in Night Vale, folks.

Once you've seen that which cannot be reversed, you learn to expect most eventualities. Groaning catbeasts, ritualised trolling and homicidal staple foods are little more than everyday occurrences in our paranormal- and scientifically interesting- community.

But even so, I don't expect to be waken by my telephone. Eyes squinted shut, I roll over and fumble for the vibrating device, "Hello?"

"I didn't wake you, did I Cecil?"

"Who is this?" I say through a tongue heavy with sleep. It's only when that slight inflection that comes with a question slips past that I process the dulcet tones on the other end.

"It's Carlos."

He might as well have said 'It's your god' for all the effect it has. I repeat his name, and hope my wonder and reverence doesn't carry across the line. A short pause, and I ask him why he's calling.

"Science," he says.

"Oh."

Carlos tells me that beneath Night Vale, there is only void. There should be layers of earth and a molten core far under our feet, but our small section of the earth has nothing. There is no plaster-thin sliver of dirt on the other side of the world: just a gaping hole below us.

I ask him if that means there is a deep chasm in our planet.

"Only to us."

I make the mistake of listening too deep and his voice traps me and I forget what I meant to say.

"Okay."

But is that not how the world is? We are connected to the rest of the planet by something as thin as our humanity, but below our skin, in the core of our beings, we are not connected at all; none of us really human inside, but dancers and misfits and philosophers.

"And what about cacti?"

There is a low humming sound behind him, "Cacti?"

"Yeah, yesterday you were hypothesising that cacti exert some sort of magnetic pull."

"Oh! That!" his voice brightens, "Well, the results were inconclusive and during one of the preliminary experiments, we happened to stumble upon proof that there is nothing beneath us. Consider the foray into cacti... suspended, for a moment."

I ask him what on earth that humming noise in the background is, and after a moment, he asks slowly, "What humming noise?"

"Nevermind," I tell him. Perhaps the noise is coming from my end, "I'll investigate it later."

"Okay, sure. Don't want to keep you. Bye, Cecil."

The line goes dead. Did Carlos not hear my very carefully enunciated 'later'? I thought I'd made it pretty clear that I preferred his perfect company over any sinister humming that may occur, but apparently not. Anyhow, I set out to find the source of the noise, and spend the high part of the day combing beneath beds and behind shelving units, stopping only to make myself a turkey and pickle sandwich. It's quite late when I find the culprit; it's a chicken and its beak is wide agape, tongue out, eyes spinning madly in their sockets. And it is humming in a low monotone. I'm not sure if the chicken's colouring is quite normal (who's ever heard of a brown chicken?) and I would check that out with John Peters- y'know, the farmer- but he doesn't own any livestock, so he couldn't possibly help. There's only one other person in town who might know what's wrong with the colour of this chicken's feathers.

Smiling with my newfound excuse to visit Night Vale's most beautiful scientist, I get up to go. But before I leave, I give the little fellow some imaginary corn and leave him to his wonderful symphony.

I try to disguise the spring in my step as I walk along, but it's no use; it can't be contained. And when I near his house, I try and force my legs to be stiller, more poised, but then they only jitter. Curse my lack of coordination. But there's no time to get my limbs in check, as I am on the doorstep and my hand is ready to knock, and so I do. I knock once, twice, and wait a moment.

From inside, there is no sound, not even the briefest flicker of motion. The void of his house is stagnant within these busy streets. I knock again and wait. Still no reply. Carlos is definitely in; the curtains are drawn and light diffuses through the heavy fabric. I knock once more, more forcefully this time.

The door opens a crack. It is unlocked.

Something is wrong.

"Carlos?" I venture. My words stream through the hallway and trickle into the cracks in the wall. There they settle. No response comes, apart from a quiet clink somewhere further, and I can't be sure that it counts as one. Even so, I move towards it. The floorboards creak uncomfortably beneath my feet, as does the door when I push it open.

The curtains are open back here, and the sunlight shatters the windows and catches the dust that clings to the walls like a chrysalis. Carlos sits slumped over the kitchen table, and his skin, his shell, is thinner than a butterfly's wings. An empty bottle lies in his hand. A dozen more on the ground.

"What happened?" I whisper.

He groans into his hands. Doesn't reply.

I take a small step forward and he notices the noise, glances up. His eyes are red and bruised and sad. It is his eyes that make me fall short. It is the look within them that makes me falter.

"Cecil, do you ever feel so... insignificant, so small, microscopic? And the people around you are so great, so special, and you couldn't possibly shine a light to them?"

"Yeah."

I don't mention that he can make me feel this way.

His voice, I notice, is struggling to keep up with his drink-addled brain, "You know, when I grew up, everyone around me told me I was special. And when I got older, I thought myself as some sort of god, like I was somehow more important than anyone else, and I was convinced I knew everything there was to know, and I'd be rich and famous and in love. And now I'm an adult, and I come here and it overthrows everything I've ever known, and I realise I'm not rich, I'm not famous, and my friendships are empty and my love will never be requited. And I realise I knew nothing after all. And that scares me."

I have a power that ignites in my throat and rolls down my tongue, bursting past my lips in a series of vibrations that settle as sound. To the human ear, these arrange into words, each sentence a sonata strung from syntax. It is a power that can both hide and reveal the recesses of my mind, a power that can wound, yet also heal.

It is a power that often fails me, and it does. I can only watch this tortured soul as the shadows bleed into his arms and bruise his cheeks.

"Carlos..." I say, simply. There is nothing else to say. But there is something I can do.

I close the remaining distance between us and enclose his body in my arms. He is shaking. I hold him closer and slowly, slowly, he relaxes into my chest.

Both of us are blessed.

Carlos is blessed with demons that lurk in the depths of his September eyes, waiting for a light to flicker out inside, waiting to steal away his very essence, and they are demons that rip him apart, expose him for what he truly is; a beautiful, god-given flaw on the fabric of this earth.

I am blessed with power that can wipe these hells away.

Together, we are me. And we are the things that can not be said, but linger, free of purpose or meaning.

* * *

**A/N: Ehh, that took a while. I guess I was a little distracted by original material/making Christmas happen. Enjoy anyway :)**


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